


Winter's Tales: In the Library

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Series: Winter's Tales [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 200 follower ficlets, BDSM, Established Relationship, F/M, Lace Panties, Spanking, winter's tales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock takes Molly to visit the ancestral manor, she feels something special in the stories she finds in this room. A prompt fill for my dearie Kuraschenie, set in my Winter universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Tales: In the Library

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuraschenie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=kuraschenie).



“So, this is the library,” Sherlock said, opening the heavy oaken doors with both hands, then leading the way into the dim, intimately proportioned room. “Well?” he asked, leaning on the back of a heavily carved armchair and resting a hand on his hip. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly breathed, taking in the heavenly scents of leather and old paper, of wood polish and centuries. She lifted her eyes; the room was not large, but the walls of books extended up to a second level, where a shining wooden balustrade ran around the top of the room from a little spiral staircase in one corner. “It’s...I think this may be the most beautiful room in all of the Holmes estate.” 

“You would,” Sherlock said with a smirk, tossing his suit jacket carelessly on the back of another armchair. Molly ignored his sally, turning in a slow circle and craning her neck to take in the painted ceiling, the glossy wood fittings, and the small stone fireplace with its grouping of comfortable chairs. As Sherlock walked to a window and busied himself with the tall velveteen curtains, she ran her fingertips along the cool oak top of the massive desk that dominated the room. 

As sunlight illuminated the shadowy corners, Molly spied a smaller desk, a school desk, sitting off to one side; and mounted in a niche above that childish piece of furniture---

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly exclaimed in delight, scampering over. “Six violins, in order of size. These are yours, aren’t they?” She reached out to gently touch the smallest one; it was heartbreakingly tiny, the body of it no longer than her small hand. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said close in her ear, startling her a bit; she hadn’t heard him draw near. “I started on that one when I was four years old.” 

“Four,” Molly repeated in disbelief, blinking. “And was this your desk?” she asked, noting the scarred and gouged top that must be the mischief of generations of frustrated Holmes children. 

“Not specifically. I studied there often until I grew too tall; but by then I was at boarding school. Ah...this shelf belonged to me,” he said, bending to run a large hand over slim, hardbound volumes. Molly spied _Treasure Island, Peter Pan, Blackbeard_...Sherlock was smiling at some memory, and Molly’s heart warmed to see his soft expression; she slipped a hand around his slender waist. He straightened up to take her in his arms, his eyes catching the light of the lowering sun like tourmaline cabochons.

“Do you know, Sherlock,” Molly said, stroking the faintly raspy skin of his jaw, “This my favourite room. I like it far better than all those stuffy halls and parlours. In here I can actually visualise you as a little boy…”

Sherlock grinned. “Your favourite? Don’t hasten to choose, my Molly. After all, I haven’t yet shown you any of the bedrooms.” His smile dropped, and his suddenly stern gaze narrowed on her face in an expression Molly had come to know well.

“I don’t care about that,” Molly replied, lifting her chin rather primly. Bedrooms, indeed. She’d need to be careful later if she wanted to prevent him from despoiling a bed; she didn’t particularly wish to speak to the elderly housekeeper about “freshening up” a bedchamber after their visit of only a few hours. “No, this room is certainly my favourite,” she said. She spotted an interesting marble bust on a shelf, and began to draw away from Sherlock to inspect it, but he held her firmly against his body. 

“Your favourite room of all, is it,” Sherlock said, his voice lowering, that familiar darkness gathering in his eyes. Oh, goodness. Her breath hitched.

She tried once more to break from his hold, but it was a nominal struggle; she couldn’t hope to escape his strength. The certainty of that knowledge sent a jolt of arousal through her body. It was settled; he’d have her now, right now, mastering her exactly as he wished, unless of course she said her safeword. And Molly had absolutely no desire to do that. 

“As it happens, Molly,” Sherlock said, his fingers weaving through her hair---worn loose, as he’d directed this morning, “this room is also my favourite.” His fingers closed into a fist, and Molly gasped at the sharp sensation on her scalp. “And yet, I’ve never done anything in this room but read...and study...and practice on my little violin. And to my knowledge, this room has never been...consecrated...by any pursuits that were other than scholarly. Rather an omission in a room one thinks of as one’s favourite. Don’t you agree, my little Molly?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he took her by one shoulder and turned her body forcefully, then backed her up until she felt the great oak desk nudge up against the backs of her thighs. He released her hair to pluck at the waist tie of her sundress, then pulled the light, loose garment up and over her head. Molly’s skin was suddenly bared to the soft golden light streaming in from the window, and she gasped to be uncovered so peremptorily, and in this unfamiliar place. But instead of murmuring his approval at the sight of her bare shoulders and soft little breasts, Sherlock tutted in annoyance. Molly blinked up at him, in dismay at his apparent displeasure. 

“You’re covering yourself with your arms, Molly,” he drawled. And so she was, Molly realised. Sherlock caught her wrists and flicked them away from her body, then darted one hand behind her and swiftly unhooked her bra. “Never cover yourself when I’ve exposed your nakedness. I’ve trained you better than that, girl.” He tossed her bra onto a leather chair and stepped back from her, leaving Molly leaning back on the desk in nothing but her heeled sandals and lacy little knickers. 

“Yes, sir,” she said, but couldn’t help a glance over his shoulder, where the great double doors stood open to the airy parlour beyond. She knew the housekeeper kept mostly to the gate house; she hoped the old lady wouldn’t make an exception today. “I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” 

“No, I should say not,” Sherlock said quietly. The slow rise and fall of his shoulders was giving off a distinct air of menace as he stood for a long moment, considering her. Then he snapped his fingers and walked swiftly back to his shelf, from which he plucked an antique, cloth-bound book. Walking back to Molly, he opened the book and set it out flat on the desk behind her. 

“You need a little lesson in proper deportment,” Sherlock decreed. “I found this particular text rather...enjoyable in my youth, when I imagined how I’d like my future playthings to behave. And now, you too will find it instructive. Turn,” he told her, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. “Read aloud. Don’t touch the book.” 

Her eyes wide, Molly turned to face the desk. The old book was small, the letterpress type fine and rather broken; she found she had to lean down over the desk to get close enough to read. Of course, now her bottom was on display, her body vulnerable to anything Sherlock might care to inflict upon her. She knit her brows for an instant, hesitating. 

“Read.” His voice was deepening with impatience. “Start there, at the top of page two-hundred seventy. Don’t stop reciting until I tell you. No matter what happens.”

Molly swallowed, and obeyed. 

“The Measure of a Lady Wife,” she read out, her voice shaking a little. Wife? “Hints and Helps on Good Behavior at all Times and in all Places.” She felt faint currents of air on the skin of her bottom...but she had to continue, or face his greater wrath. 

“One. Embrace a sweet submission to your husband’s will and tastes; a modest spirit excites his admiration without unseemly display of itself,” she intoned, squinting at the broken letters. “Two. Do not place a light estimate on the value of good reading and fine education; they will yield perpetual interest to your conversations.” What was Sherlock doing back there? Molly resisted the urge to glance back. Instead, she kept on with her recitation. 

“Three. A high sense of rectitude, a loving soul, with a pure and kind heart---oh!” she gasped out as the first hard spank landed on her bottom. 

“Continue.” Sherlock’s voice brooked no disobedience.

“...are---are elements of nobility---oh!---which will ensure that a lady feels her manners---ah, Sherlock---are adored at home and admired everywhere.” Molly was failing spectacularly to keep her voice steady as Sherlock’s spanks fell ever more sharply on her reddening arse. “Private refinement makes---oh!---public gentility.”

Sherlock was jerking on her knickers, forcing them sharply up into the cleft of her bottom. Molly shuddered to feel the sharp pressure of the lace on her pussy, and Sherlock gathered up the fabric at the top of her arse like a short leash as his other hand continued to administer her spanking. Valiantly, Molly marshalled the shreds of her composure and kept her gaze on the page. She’d not cry out with every spank, not if she could help it.

“Four. Banish a self-conscious spirit---the source of much awkwardness---with a constant aim to please your ‘lord and master’---remember that it is incumbent upon a lady to cultivate---oh, oh---a willing enthusiasm.” Molly was panting now, her face burning with the shame of having a cry wrenched from her with a particularly hard slap. But press on, she must. 

“Five---If you would conciliate the favour of your spouse---tell him of your thoughts in matters great and small. Remember---that if you wilfully hold your silence---and permit sullenness or resentment---to occupy your soul, you are ru---ruined,” Molly gasped out. A moan was torn from her throat as Sherlock pulled hard on her poor knickers, working them from side to side, so cruel against her aching pussy. With a whimper, she strove again to focus on the book. To read the book, to read aloud for Sherlock, was all that mattered...

“Six. The following is said to be---a correct posture for a demure wife: head erect---not too rigid---chin in, shoulders back,” she said, fighting back her sobs. “Permit no unnecessary motion about the thighs---ah!” And Molly let out a sharp scream as Sherlock landed a slap on the sensitive tops of her legs. “D-do not omit to remain meekly at your husband’s side in walking---s-standing or sitting; the practice is not only graceful---ah!---but it shows respect for his role as your guardian.”

A pause in the spanking; the distinct sound of his zip. Molly allowed herself to pant for a few seconds while Sherlock was distracted, but he was having none of it.

“Read, Molly!” Sherlock shouted, startling her, as he pulled her knickers roughly down to her thighs. With a stab of excitement, Molly felt him press the head of his hard cock against her wet heat.

“Seven. An unmarried lady will...oh...avoid familiarity in her deportment towards gentlemen,” Molly read, a deep moan threading through the words as Sherlock sheathed himself deeply in her with a hiss of satisfaction. “A young lady should not….oh, Sherlock!...permit her gentlemen friends to address her...ah...by her home name, and the reverse is true...Use the titles Miss and Mister respectively…Oh, Mister Holmes…” Molly crooned, a grin playing about her lips.

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock panted back, a dark smile in his voice conveying wilful insolence...or connubial intimacy? But Molly couldn’t think--- 

“Thighs pressed hard together, little plaything. Oh, good girl,” he groaned as she obeyed, making her already tight passage even narrower for him. 

“Now you can touch the book. Turn to page two-hundred eighty-one,” Sherlock directed, combing his fingers through her hair once more. 

Molly’s hands were trembling, her vision wobbling with the jostle of his forceful thrusts, but she fumbled with the crisp pages of the old book, trying to be as gentle as she possibly could while Sherlock’s cock was swelling inside her and his fingers were playing with her clit. 

“I’m--I’m there,” she said faintly, the book unsteady before her eyes.

“Read me the final epigraph on the page,” Sherlock growled out, his fingers tightening on her hair. And Molly blinked away tears and recited as best she could.

“The primal duties shine aloft, like stars;  
The charities that soothe and heal and bless  
Are scattered at the feet of man like---like flowers...”

And with that, Molly gave in to the hot swelling tension that Sherlock’s wicked fingers were rubbing out of her, climaxing with a cry that echoed back through the double doors from the great room behind them. Sherlock fucked her mercilessly through her crisis until he, too, succumbed to ecstasy, collapsing forward over her body as his hips gave her a few final, sharp jerks.

And Molly, her eyes squeezed shut, her lips brushing the wood of the great desk, whispered the attribution of the epigraph from memory: “...William Wordsworth.”

Sherlock was kissing her ear, her cheek, his suddenly gentle fingers sweeping the damp hair from her face. “Beautifully recited, my darling. Very well done indeed. I’ll make a lady of you yet.” 

Molly’s heart gave a sweet throb at the veiled promise in those last words. She craned her neck back to kiss him; he held her chin steady for it, ever deliciously domineering. “Now this really is my favourite room in the house, Sherlock,” she told him, reaching back to stroke his dark curls, and his smile mirrored her own.


End file.
